


How the Other Half Lives

by alittlepieceofgundamwing_archivist



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Lime, M/M, POV Alternating, Romance, Shounen-ai, by FancyFigures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-22 06:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13758123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alittlepieceofgundamwing_archivist/pseuds/alittlepieceofgundamwing_archivist
Summary: by FancyFigures--The mission is to find compatibility; the problem is that opposites attract..





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Dacia, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [A Little Piece of Gundam Wing](https://fanlore.org/wiki/A_Little_Piece_Of_Gundam_Wing), which closed in 2017. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after July 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [a little piece of gundam wing collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/alittlepieceofgundamwing/profile).

"No, of course I'm not trying to harass you." Quatre's voice is very calm, very soft. He insists he's not here to annoy me, nor to interfere with my life. He doesn't appear to realise that he's causing the very effect he's trying to avoid. I often wonder about this empathetic skill he's meant to possess.  
  
"It's just a friendly word, Heero. Don't be defensive. It's just that your friends can see you ... _objectively_ , as it were. And we worry about the impression you give to others."   
  
"Impression?" He's sitting carelessly on the side of my couch. I'm worried that his boot buckle will snag on the fabric. The upholstery is new, and cost a large proportion of my last six month's salary.   
  
"Heero, are you listening to me?"   
  
"Do I have any choice, Quatre?" I place my drink back down on the co ordinating coaster, straightening the top right edge of it so that it lines up with the base of the lamp. "Look, I'm fine about the _impression_ I give people. People can like it, or ... get over it. If they don't have the wit to cope with an alternative point of view, then that's their problem."   
  
He gives one of those long-suffering sighs that I seem to provoke so frequently in him. His whole demeanour is one of compassionate disappointment: I think he must practice it in his leisure time. I suggested that once to Trowa and he spat his drink out all over the table. Thank goodness it wasn't actually in my apartment. Red wine stains can be a nightmare to get out. Trowa had growled a protest at me, though his eyes had been laughing. After all, I'd only been trying to help Quatre gain a deeper _empathy_.   
  
Quatre's face is rather flushed. He seems frustrated. "God, Heero, but that's exactly what we're getting at! Your total lack of tolerance for -- or interest in -- the rest of the human race! How the hell are you ever going to meet anyone new, or, God forbid, someone _romantically_ , if you show them no more respect than you do a piece of furniture?"   
  
I stare at him, pityingly. "Actually, Quatre, I consider a fine piece of antique furniture far more worthy of respect than most of the pieces of human detritus that you persist in thrusting my way in the name of _romance_. Please leave me to organise my own social life and choose my own companions."   
  
"But when was the last time anyone passed _that_ interview?" he snaps back. He looks annoyed and confused -- I think he's struggling to remember the meaning of the word detritus. "You've lived here for six months, yet you have no idea who your neighbours are. You have no involvement in neighbourhood committees, no regular account at the grocers or a tab at the local bar --"  
  
"I have a place of my own, surrounded by my own things, arranged just as I like them."   
  
" _Arranged_!" Quatre is standing up now and his whole body language appears tense. "Hell, you can't always _arrange_ everything in life! You've got to loosen up a bit -- be receptive to new experiences, to new relationships. Things can be ... irrational, sometimes, you know? People, too. Heero, you are so anally retentive that being around you makes _me_ want to clench up! Will you please listen to me, for once?"   
  
He really does look distressed now. This is usually how our conversations go, I must admit. It's another observation I've pointed out to Trowa. Quatre has a low emotional threshold -- a tendency to overreact. Or maybe that's just around me. Trowa smiles whenever I mention it, which leads me to assume that Quatre's excitable reactions are no problem to _him_.   
  
"I'm listening," I say, seeking to keep his exclamations down below an offensive decibel level. "If it makes you less outraged, I'll try to ... loosen up a bit." His eyes are rolling now, which is always a bad sign. I cast around in my mind for some consolation prize for him. "There's a notice on the communal board downstairs -- an apartment-sitting scheme, for when tenants go away for weekends. That would be useful for me, I admit, for when I go to auctions. I'll sign up for that, OK? Just to show some public spiritedness. But nothing more. I don't want to join the book reading clubs or the Christmas carol concerts." I'm trying to explain my feelings to him, but maybe my small shudder does that just as well.   
  
He nods gently -- it appears to be some kind of surrender. "That's a good start, Heero. Well done. We just ... I'd just like to see you enjoying life a little more. You're good-looking; you're witty and clever, and you're good company." He catches my glare at such a ridiculous resume. "OK," he says, with that eye-rolling thing again. "So you _can be_ , if you try. Really hard. But I just think that you have a lot to offer someone, if you'd just ..."  
  
"Quatre," I say, carefully. He's a good friend, I know. Even if he does disturb the feng shui in my apartment every time he comes around. "You don't need to make me your mission in life. You have your own idea of happiness and I'm pleased for you. But I have sufficient enjoyment of my own, already." He knows enough to let the subject drop, and we chat more generally before he's called away to meet up with Trowa.   
  
I wait until the door closes behind him before I rush to tidy up his glass and smooth the couch where he sat. Then, to be fair to him, I look around the apartment, trying to see my life with his objective eye. All I see is ... me. The room is delightfully tidy -- soothingly quiet. The pale cream colour on the walls really does blend pleasantly with the chrome and dark tapestry fabrics of the furniture. I like the sparse, plain effect, and so I keep telling my friends. I have no desire to tolerate the vibrant colours of Quatre's modern art, or the loud volume of Trowa's latest music.   
  
Of course, when Quatre talks about my enjoyment of life, he really means I should be dating, as he is with Trowa. But I've tried this in the past, albeit tentatively, and I've found it mostly unsatisfactory. And confusing ... and messy. In fact, everything I abhor. After all, there's nothing wrong with wanting people on my own terms. Nothing wrong with enjoying one's own company.   
  
Nothing wrong at all.   
  
+  
  
Wufei has a damned colourful portfolio of Chinese curses. That's the second time he's fallen over that packing case of assorted china and stubbed his toe. I'm learning all kinda new words.   
  
"Dammit, Duo, can't you clear this away? You've been here for months now, but it's like you only moved in yesterday." He's looking around with a wild expression in his eyes, rubbing surreptitiously at the injured foot with the other. "Look at it all ... everything a mess, no order to it. How the hell do you _live_ here?"   
  
I bite my lip, because after all, this is, indeed, where I _live_. It's just as I like it. I never see the need to unpack my stuff into cupboards and on to shelves because it just doubles the work. Stepping over boxes doesn't bother me. There's always something going on that's more interesting than cleaning -- beyond a basic spit and polish, anyway.   
  
Wufei's a good friend, you know? He admits that he feels relaxed at my place, but he's been known to wander around after me, picking up stuff. That makes me laugh, of course. And I like to laugh. Today he's balanced gingerly on the only kitchen chair that's secure on all four legs and is looking around for a clean glass. I'm drinking from the bottle, as usual, perched on the edge of my table.   
  
"I guess you can find your way around this place OK," he sighs. He's making that _big effort_ again -- the one where he tries not to lose his temper and call me a slob. That happens on a regular basis. Still, it keeps him occupied, and as for me -- it's water off a duck's back, right? "But what do guests think?"   
  
"Guests?" I grin, happily enough. "You're here, aren't you?"   
  
He stares. "No, Duo. I meant other people -- people who aren't ..." Here comes that look again. "... who aren't _used_ to your pathological hatred of housekeeping." He gives up looking for a glass and settles for drinking from the bottle like me. When he leans back in the chair, one of the legs bends crookedly with an ominous creak. "Where do you entertain? You never finished decorating the lounge -- you still don't have a decent couch."   
  
I shrug. "I couldn't decide in the end between the crimson flock wallpaper and the purple paint. If I keep the two of 'em up on the wall there together, it may inspire me one day. And I don't see why I need a couch; it'd just be a waste of furniture. I work long hours; I work a lot of weekends away from home -- and I've got chairs. What are you, the Apartment Makeover Police?"   
  
He smiles, but it's a little forced. "If _you_ don't see why you might need a couch, I'm the last one to tell you. I mean it, Duo -- what sort of impression do you think you're giving to people? How will you ever make new friends? Sometimes it exhausts me, nagging you about your careless dress sense and your slovenly apartment and your lack of healthy male pursuits."   
  
I find I'm looking down at my clothes rather defensively. I never see the need to iron tee shirts when they get creased again so quickly. And last time I caught a fashion programme on TV, wasn't it hip to have rips in your jeans? "You really mean I should be chasing other guys and gals. You mean I should be dressed like a gigolo, smelling like a brothel, lighting scented candles in the bathroom --"  
  
This is way too familiar an argument, but it's an entertainment for us both, and I don't hold it against Wufei personally. He's a good looking guy and he has no trouble in attracting plenty of company. Of course it's a pity he likes girls rather than boys, or things could've been different between us -- if only to put a stop to all these 'elder brother' type talks. I mean, it's not that I don't like the thought of having some fun like that. It's just that dating's a hell of a lot of bother for a fairly unreliable outcome, and I don't often have the time or energy for it.   
  
"Look, Wufei," I say, carefully. "Chill. I'm fine about the _impression_ I give people. People can like it or receive it diagonally up the most appropriate orifice. I'm not bothered."   
  
"That's just what I mean," he groans. "You don't seem to be bothered about anything. You never settle to one thing at a time -- trying to keep up with you is like watching mercury wriggle through someone's fingers. If you could just demonstrate some self-control, you'd show yourself to a much better advantage. I mean, you're good looking, you're always enthusiastic, and you've got a fine, creative brain, albeit your education seems to have bypassed interior design. I'm sure you've got a lot to offer."   
  
"Thanks for such a glowing vote of confidence," I say wryly. "You want supper before you go?"   
  
His eyes narrow with regret. "No thanks." He's my main test subject for all my inventive recipes, and I know it's the one area he never criticises me. But today, he has no time and gets up to leave. Cheats me of the fun of kicking that loose chair leg out from under him and dumping his ass on to the floor. "Just try a little harder, Duo, OK? I only want you to enjoy life to the full."   
  
"I'll give it some thought," I promise him, showing him out of the apartment. "You've been a man on a mission for long enough -- though the last thing I need is another guy's _guidance_. Look, I saw a notice downstairs about apartment-sitting at weekends, maybe I'll sign up for that, make some new friends." It'll be useful for me when I'm on long shifts. And the return favour will be sort of like helping out -- but not having to go far out of my way. Won't have to dress up or anything; won't be beholden to anyone beyond a weekend or two.   
  
When Wufei's gone, I feel a little unsettled. The way I live, it's a lifestyle choice -- that's what I try to tell my friends, though none of 'em really gets it. I can't bear feeling trapped -- bored -- obliged. My apartment is just that: _mine_ , to do with what I wish, when I wish. Or not, as the case may be. I guess spontaneity's not everyone's idea of fun -- that might account for my rather dormant social life recently.   
  
I drag a couple of boxes to the side so that I can get at the cupboard under the sink. I think that was the last place I saw my home brew equipment, and I remember that's what I was going to start this week. A pile of assorted papers falls off the counter and showers me; the door of the cupboard tilts on a single hinge and hits me on the foot. I'd been planning to mend that _last_ week; guess I got distracted again.   
  
When I straighten up, some dust in my braid and my arms full of grubby equipment, I catch a sight of the room with fresh eyes. It's like every other room in the apartment: full of stuff; jumbled together; piled up; a glorious jetsam of my life. All I see is ...me.   
  
There's nothing wrong with being a free spirit, is there?   
  
Nothing wrong at all. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> by FancyFigures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from Dacia, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [A Little Piece of Gundam Wing](https://fanlore.org/wiki/A_Little_Piece_Of_Gundam_Wing), which closed in 2017. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after July 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [a little piece of gundam wing collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/alittlepieceofgundamwing/profile).

There's no way I think Quatre's amusement is justified -- no way at all. I suppose I imagined that he would share my horror at the experience I've just been through. No -- _suffered_ , is the appropriate word.  
  
"Was it really that bad?" he laughs. "Come on, these are smart apartments; the tenants have money and they have to clear some kind of police check before moving in. It can't have been a _hell-hole_ , as you so graphically describe ..."  
  
"It was." I'm still shuddering at the thought. "Dammit, I thought the place had been burgled. I've never seen such a mess in my life. Everything jumbled together; nothing labelled or cleared away." Quatre's still laughing at me, and I'm not sure I approve of his levity. "There were dirty plates, Quatre. And not just in the sink! I found a full set of cutlery in the bathroom, and there was some correspondence pinned to the wall in the lobby with a fork. Like a ... _spear_. A most aggressive vision. There was dust on the top of every door frame, and a very disturbing colour scheme on the walls of the lounge. I had a headache after my first evening visit."  
  
"So what do you have to do? Do you have to live there while the owner's away? All the time?"  
  
I catch the glint in his eye. "Very amusing, I'm sure. No, I only have to check in on a daily basis. Collect up the mail, check the alarm's set -- things like that."  
  
"Mail?" Quatre's still provoking me. "I believe you can tell a lot by a person's mail."  
  
"I believe so," I reply dryly. "But if that's the case, I'm not much the wiser, having waded through a mass of free flyers and invitations to various gourmet events. Oh, and there were some gaming magazines with lurid covers of impossibly-cantilevered, scantly-clad animated women."  
  
"How the other half lives," murmurs my so-called friend. "You sorted it through for the owner, then?"  
  
I can feel a slight flush on my cheeks. "Of course I did, among other things. The owner obviously needed some help clearing up. I sorted a total mess of CDs into alphabetical order. There was a hideous smell in the laundry room, so I disposed of a filthy bottle of stagnant liquid I found in there. Then there was some particularly challenging washing up -- the tenant appears to cook several times a day and uses some very eccentric ingredients ..." I notice Quatre's raised eyebrow. "I was just looking to pass the time, you understand. You're the one told me to show some neighbourliness."  
  
Quatre's grinning at me again now. One would think he assumed some ulterior motive in me, like common curiosity. Or something.  
  
"So who owns this apartment?"  
  
"I have no idea," I shrug. "The owner never turned up for the introductory meeting. The management committee provided the key and the details. I'm not sure all of this meets your criteria of making new friends and influencing people, so perhaps I should just let it drop ..."  
  
Quatre raises an eyebrow sceptically. I think we've been friends for too long, or else his empathy is improving.  
  
"OK," I sigh. "I'll persist with it. Actually, I had some ideas for a shoe rack in the hallway and some modern storage units in the kitchen -- he might be interested in that. I've never seen so many ill-assorted utensils -- I'm very glad I have the delivery service for my meals. And a formal message board would also be an excellent idea ..."  
  
"He?" Quatre's eyelids flicker. His interest would be imperceptible to anyone else, but maybe _my_ empathy is improving, too.  
  
"I saw his apartment, remember? I saw the mail. And ..." I'm wracked with another shudder. "I saw the piles of unfolded laundry. It's a male tenant. Please don't ask me to elaborate."  
  
"Underwear?" Quatre is relentless. "I believe you can tell a lot by a person's --"  
  
I glare at him and he bites back the rest of the sentence. "I didn't stay any longer than necessary," I insist. "I was going to play the CDs that had been left out of their cases, just to check whether they were still serviceable, but I couldn't get the equipment to work."  
  
Quatre frowns. "It was broken?"  
  
"No, no." I'm impatient with him now, and although I like his company, I'm hoping he'll go soon. There's something disturbing my thoughts and I need to wipe the whole apartment-sitting episode from my mind. I need to settle back in my own place, on my own, with my things around me. I need...  
  
I sigh. "The place was the most appalling jumble, Quatre. I just couldn't find the remote control. Then when I was about to lock up and leave, I found it under the --" Now it's my turn to bite off my unfortunate words, but it's too late; Quatre's all but _pouncing_ on me.  
  
"Where, Heero? Where did you find it?"  
  
"Under the laundry," I admit. The flush is all over my neck now. "If you must know, it was under a pile of boxers illustrated with a character called _Link_."  
  
+  
  
Wufei is laughing at me and I'm pretty pissed at him. "For God's sake, what's the joke? This is your fault, for bullying me into doing something that I should have _known_ wasn't my thing. I do my Good Samaritan act and all I get in return is being creeped out!"  
  
"Duo." He's shaking his head. "This is a good neighbourhood, a smart apartment block; you don't get ghouls here. You sound like a kid at Halloween."  
  
"Hell, I _felt_ like one!" I'm nearly hysterical, I know, but I reckon I'm suffering from some kind of post-traumatic stress disorder. "It was like no one lived there at all, you know? Place was cold ... and it was too frigging quiet." I let the shudder run all through me, exorcising it all from my system. "The tenant's got nothing in the cupboards -- no food, no extra pots and pans. Must eat out all the time, though there wasn't a single pizza box in sight. No magazines open at a favourite page, no pile of shoes in the hallway for quick and easy use, no souvenir glasses -- or any ornaments at all. And no notes pinned up _anywhere_. I don't know how the hell anyone manages life without some gentle reminders ..."  
  
"So you had a good look around," says Wufei, wryly. He's grinning at me again, though I don't know why the hell he's getting such entertainment from my distress. "Aren't you just meant to drop in occasionally over the weekend, check it's safe, collect up the mail --?"  
  
"No mail," I shrug. "Well, nothing interesting. All I found were unopened offers for new credit cards and a magazine featuring old bits of furniture. Boring cover, and that's before you even look inside. No animated logos or Tomb Raider types shooting up oak dressers or anything ..."  
  
"Antiques," murmurs Wufei, approving of the subject if not my attitude.  
  
I scowl. "Like I know what antiques are, thanks. Place is full of old, expensive stuff like that. In fact, the lounge felt like some kind of mausoleum -- pale walls and dark furniture, nothing to look at except books. I got a tension headache just listening for something to crackle or spit or fart, just to break the tedium."  
  
"There were plants to water?"  
  
I shrugged. "Not so's you'd notice. There were some fat little things in pots, looked plastic, all twisted and suchlike, I left them the hell alone. Well, apart from having to shift 'em to one side to look for some bearable music to play. Which was a futile quest, I can tell you. I feel sorry for the owner, in all truth, obviously having no time to make the place personal, or friendly."  
  
"So you ...?" Wufei's voice is a murmur, trailing off.  
  
"Well, yes, I did think I should help out a bit, just in passing. The pale walls were a great backdrop for some prints I found behind the couch -- not sure why they hadn't been put up before; I love modern art like that. And I gathered a few bits and pieces from my kitchen here and rustled up a batch of goulash for the week ahead. Nothing like home cooked food. Bit tricky, working in an unfamiliar kitchen, but most of the mess cleared up OK."  
  
Wufei's eyebrows are raised in that supercilious way he has, where he pretends he knows me better than I know myself. "So did you meet this mystery tenant?"  
  
"No," I grumble. "Didn't bother to come to the introductory meeting."  
  
"You didn't go either, Duo, I suspect." Wufei states the obvious. He knows me far too well. "You're not giving this a proper trial."  
  
I sigh. I feel kinda tired after a couple of weekends away myself, and then my weekend duty as Mausoleum Curator. I'm just really glad to be back amongst all my own stuff, cooking some new recipes I found, music playing loudly in the lounge. Though I was pissed to find my CDs were all out of order ... I can't imagine Wufei would try such a scam on me, but you never know. It'll take a helluva long time to sort them back into my special chronological system.  
  
"OK, I'll give it another try." Wufei only wants the best for me -- albeit that's by _his_ standards. And it had been kind of cool to see someone else's place, even if it was like stepping into a show home. "I wouldn't mind finding out some more about that art work -- and I've got some more ideas I could share about easy weekday meals if there's time pressure. Though I can't see what I'll have in common with a guy who stacks his underwear in colour coordinated piles." I notice Wufei's surprised look for the first time. "I was looking for a towel, OK? I spilled some water on the kitchen table. Well, quite a lot, actually, the water pressure's different in the apartments on that floor ..."  
  
Wufei's frowning at me. Maybe it's because he fell over that packing case again when he came in. " _He_ , Duo? "  
  
I shrug again. "Yeah, it's a guy."  
  
"And you knew that, how --?"  
  
"The mail," I protest. "Obviously. You think I'm going to go nosing through someone's washday piles solely to find out if they wear a bra or boxers?"  
  
"Yes," says Wufei.  
  
"Be sure not to slam the door on your way out," I snap back. "And turn the music up for me, will you? The remote control finally turned up; it's on the hall table." I turn around in the kitchen, looking for something, unaccountably restless. "Hey, you haven't seen a vat of my home brewed sloe gin, have you? I thought I left it in the laundry room. It was just reaching the critical fermentation stage ..."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> by FancyFigures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from Dacia, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [A Little Piece of Gundam Wing](https://fanlore.org/wiki/A_Little_Piece_Of_Gundam_Wing), which closed in 2017. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after July 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [a little piece of gundam wing collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/alittlepieceofgundamwing/profile).

Quatre has been standing in the doorway to the lounge for two minutes forty-three seconds. He appears to be rooted to the spot. If he extended both his arms to the side, I would suggest utilising him as some kind of new age coat stand. He makes a gargling noise in his throat as he stares at the wall ahead of him.  
  
"It's one of my pictures," he says. He sounds breathless. I nod in reply: I need to get past him to go to the kitchen. I don't see that his statement requires any clarification.  
  
"You've got one of my pictures on display. On your _wall_."  
  
Quatre is making a new conversational style out of stating the obvious.  
  
"I know," I say, rather curtly. "The ... sitter put it up when he was here. I haven't had time to take it down."  
  
"You said my art made you nauseous," says Quatre. He looks a little disorientated. No -- _stunned_ is perhaps the word. "You said the mix of colours and shape was like a particularly messy and aggressive migraine. You said I wasn't to take it personally, but that if I were looking for your professional opinion, you'd rather cut off your left arm and let the blood spatter across your clean ironing than have to face any of my work on a daily basis --"  
  
"All right, I think you've made your rather tortuous point." I nudge past him a little brusquely. "I was obviously in a bad mood then. I'm sure you'd be the first to agree that any man can occasionally change his mind." He's muttering something behind me about how only a lunatic would consider Heero Yuy to be any man, but I may be mistaken. "Do you want tea, soda, or just to stand there gawping until the Holidays?"  
  
He follows me into the kitchen, still clutching his jacket. He looks around, puzzled, waving it aimlessly from one hand.  
  
"Just drop it on the chair," I say. "You can hang it up in the hall when we've had our supper." When I look back at him, he's got that startled rabbit look again. I suspect that it's another expression he practises regularly. "What's the matter now?"  
  
"I should have hung my jacket up already," he says. He stares at me. "On the third hook from the left. Over the umbrella. You always insist on that exact placement. Now you say _just drop it on the chair_." He glances around the kitchen and his eyes widen further. "There's all sorts of food in here, Heero, that I've never seen grace your counter before. Since when have you bought fresh ingredients? Since when have you owned a _food processor_?" He peers at me now, and there's a smile creeping across his face. "Who are you, and what have you done with my borderline obsessive friend Heero Yuy?"  
  
"Don't be ridiculous," I snap. "I just thought I'd invite you around for supper and cook it myself. He left a particularly interesting recipe last weekend --"  
  
Too late to bite back the careless words. Quatre pounces, as he is so fond of doing. "He? _He?_ Do you mean this mysterious apartment sitter?"  
  
"Not mysterious, for God's sake. Don't be melodramatic --"  
  
"Have you met him, then?"  
  
I purse my lips. "No. Not exactly. We keep missing each other -- we both seem to be away a lot. He ... leaves me notes." I recall the bold, scrawling script, the signature of smiley faces -- all on creased scraps of paper that I might have previously thrown out as rubbish. The first note had astonished me ... since then, I'd come to look out for them, albeit rather warily.  
  
The gleam in Quatre's eyes is relentless. I'm disturbed to feel a blush on my cheeks, and so I busy myself with the mixed salad to try to distract us both. "Do you know, when he first visited, he had the effrontery to bring some personal items into my kitchen. I never managed to contact him to demand they be removed. Dammit, Quatre, he _cooked_ while he was here! How outrageous is that?"  
  
"Appalling ..." my friend murmurs agreement, but I can tell his heart's not in it. He sits at the kitchen table in front of a brand new pasta bowl, his head resting on his hand, giving the impression of hanging on my every word. He looks like he's struggling not to grin.  
  
"So," I continue, measuring the exact proportions of oil and vinegar as appropriate for the dressing, "I decided to use them as they were obviously intended. Since then, he's left a couple of other recipes, and the necessary ingredients each time."  
  
"But you don't cook," Quatre stated, softly. "It makes mess -- you never have the time for it. It's a waste of energy, apparently. Food is nothing but a mandatory refuelling."  
  
I shrug. The pasta is almost at the correct consistency and I silently count the remaining seconds to completion, balancing the fork and colander comfortably between my hands, assessing the distance to carry the pan to the sink for draining. My nose wrinkles with instinctive pleasure as I smell the tang of pesto in the bubbling sauce.  
  
"I'm quoting _you_ , Heero Yuy," Quatre says. His tone is gentle. "Or at least, the Heero Yuy of yesteryear. Personally, I'm very pleased to see some colour brightening up the place, and the smell of home-cooked food is very welcoming. And a new ... friendship ... is also very exciting."  
  
"Exciting?" I look at a small drop of spilled water on the floor and I know I should mop it up quickly before it stains. Of course, before I started cooking for myself, the issue rarely arose. "As I remember, you considered it your mission to socialise me, to bring me out of my shell. To have me mix with the _rest of the human race_." I smile, wryly. "I'm quoting _you_ , now, Quatre Winner."  
  
He laughs, and holds his plate up to be filled. "Those are two of your virtues, Heero: your wit and your honesty," he says. "They're very attractive. I suspect that other people will also admire them, when you give them the chance."  
  
"Don't labour the point." I can hear myself growling. I pour some good red wine into Quatre's glass, and he looks down at it.  
  
He gives a strange snort. Then he holds up the glass, pointing to it, shaking with laughter and perilously close to spilling his drink. " _I left my heart in San Francisco_ , it says! Let me guess - your sitter left this behind on one of his visits, as well!"  
  
+  
  
"I'm in the lounge!" I call out because I can hear Wufei's key in the lock, dropping in on his way home from work. I'm engrossed in reading a rather interesting magazine review of a fashionable city restaurant. Considering I spent three weeks there last season in my best trouble-shooting role, it's rather disappointing to find that they still can't manage to serve up a good menu without over-cooking the shellfish or getting caught with beetle droppings in the side salad.  
  
There's a muffled curse from the hallway, and the thump of a well-built body hitting the wall. Wufei has to be one of the clumsiest guys I know. He lurches into the lounge, waving his jacket at me. "Where the hell's the case in the hallway gone?"  
  
"And a good evening to you, too, friend," I say, dryly. "It's gone. I unpacked the stuff inside and now it's cleared away. I thought I'd help you out -- I reckoned you'd fallen over it once too often."  
  
"I expected it to be there," he says, his expression bemused. "I make allowances for it when I come into the apartment. But today there was nothing there --"  
  
" -- and so you fell, regardless," I sigh. "I'll get you a drink."  
  
I get up to go to the kitchen, but he's blocking the doorway. He's staring. I wonder for a minute if he's suffered concussion of some kind, tripping over a non-existent obstacle.  
  
"Duo, what's _that_?"  
  
"No, sorry," I say, slowly. "I'm going to need more of a clue than that."  
  
"You've got a couch!" He glares at it like it's an alien object just been beamed down onto the bridge of the Starship Enterprise. I mean, I like the style, obviously, but I didn't think it was _that_ striking. "You've bought a couch!"  
  
I nod. I didn't find it under a gooseberry bush, did I?  
  
"And the walls ..." He turns his head slowly from side to side, like one of those nodding dog toys. "I mean, the colour is great. It's very ... tasteful."  
  
"Autumn umber, it's called." I'm trying to sound careless, but it comes out more like defensive. "Of course, I may still keep the crimson flock wallpaper in the hall."  
  
Wufei nods sagely, oblivious to my teasing. He peers back at me, as if looking for evidence of spots from some fatal disease, then his face grimaces with compassion. Guess that means, in his mind, I've already been diagnosed. "It's an astonishing change, Duo. But excellent progress. I never thought you'd get yourself together like this."  
  
I shrug. "No big deal. I just thought it was time to settle in a bit. A bit of painting and decorating -- a bit of clearing up. You may also have been right about needing some more furniture. On his last visit, he left a recent copy of 'Antique Design Monthly', and it gave me a few ideas ..."  
  
"He?" Wufei spins round as I pass him on the way out of the lounge. "You mean the apartment sitter? You've met him?" He seems to have sprung back into life, he's on my heels as I walk through the apartment, trying to catch my eye. He keeps dodging to avoid cases, boxes and shoe heaps, then realising they're just not there any more. It's quite amusing to see him confused like this.  
  
"No," I say, with exaggerated patience. "We're way too busy, both of us. He ... leaves me notes." We've both reached the kitchen and when I go to turn on the kettle, I can't help glancing towards some papers piled haphazardly by the cooker. Thick, expensive paper with careful script, full of excessive politeness, but also evidence of firm opinions. Made me laugh out loud the first time ... then made me think again.  
  
"So, Duo, are you exchanging housekeeping hints with him now?"  
  
I'm slow to turn around because I just don't need Wufei's smirk right now. "Don't be ridiculous. The guy's got some weird ideas about tidiness, and I draw the line at colour coding my herb pots. But he's actually suggested a few very sensible things, like the new storage arrangements in the laundry room and the recycling of my different types of household waste ..."  
  
A muted snigger from behind me alerts me to Wufei's lack of enthusiasm for such significant changes in my life.  
  
"As far as I remember," I say, slowly, and with a chilly tone that gives out a clear warning, should he choose to listen, "you've given me plenty of grief in the past about my _slovenly apartment_ , and my lack of _healthy male pursuits_. You've made it your mission to hound me, demanding I expand my horizons beyond work and sleep. So now when I venture into something new --"  
  
"Some _one_ new," he murmurs, but I ignore him.  
  
" -- so now I'm doing that," I continue," and you're still not satisfied, scorning my attempts to bring some order into my life, debasing every innocent comment of mine with your lewd and cynical attitude --"  
  
"Oh for God's sake," Wufei sighs. "I surrender, OK? I didn't mean to offend you." He peers at me, trying to see if I'm serious. Our friendship thrives on this banter, and inspires this backchat between us. But that's no reason not to catch him off-balance now and then. "I'm really pleased for you, Duo, if you're happy with it. I guess I've just got used to teasing and nagging you, and you taking not a blind bit of notice of me, treating it all like a joke yourself. But I never think of _you_ as a joke -- and I'm pretty sure that anyone worth a second look from you is going to think the same as well."  
  
I'm afraid that I'm blushing at this unexpectedly flattering reference, so I scowl instead. I pass him a mug of herbal tea, and when he looks around aimlessly for a spoon to stir it, I reach immediately to the appropriate drawer and pass him one. Such unusual efficiency makes his eyes widen again, but he's still looking apologetic. And then I grin at him.  
  
He breathes more easily, and smiles back at me over the rim of his mug. "Is that a new shirt?"  
  
I sit down opposite him. "Nah. Just one I found in the back of the wardrobe I never wore before. It happens."  
  
"It _used_ to," he says, quietly. "Maybe now you'll be colour coordinating _your_ clothes, too."  
  
"Colour coordinating my ass," I say, cheerfully. Like I'm going to stop being _me_ ...  
  
"He may have colour swatches for you to examine for that," smirks Wufei.  
  
"You may like to feel the print of my knuckles on your sarcastic jaw," I snap back.  
  
"Just being supportive," he protests.  
  
I wonder how long it'd take me to restore all the boxes and cases along Wufei's path back _out_ of the apartment.  
  
With any luck he might break a _supportive_ ankle.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> by FancyFigures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from Dacia, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [A Little Piece of Gundam Wing](https://fanlore.org/wiki/A_Little_Piece_Of_Gundam_Wing), which closed in 2017. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after July 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [a little piece of gundam wing collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/alittlepieceofgundamwing/profile).

I open the door to go out for the papers and he's there -- a tall, slender guy with big blue eyes and a surprised look. He has a hand raised, and a key tight in his fist.  
  
"Hey!" His voice is quite loud, but at a pleasant pitch. He grins, very broadly. "Scared the shit out of me," he says, cheerfully. "You looking after the place this weekend?"  
  
I wonder what he's talking about. "This is my apartment," I say, slowly. He'd been looking me up and down, which is disconcerting in the first place, but at this, his eyes snap back up to my face. A band of colour appears on his cheeks.  
  
"Shit," he says, sounding flustered. "I mean, I never imagined you'd be ..." He stops talking, takes a deep breath, and before I can even begin to reply to the last comment, he's starting again. "Look, I'm sorry, I thought you were another guy like me, sitting this apartment, and that maybe I'd got fired or something and nobody bothered to tell me, or probably I didn't get the call, or missed it -- I'm away a lot -- and when I'm not away, I'm always doing something else, you see. Anyway, I thought _you_ were away this weekend and I was on duty, but obviously the management got it mixed up, or maybe _I_ did - that's not such a ridiculous premise, because as I may have said, I'm --"  
  
"Please," I say, quite loudly. That seems necessary to get his attention. "Please tell me who you are and what you're doing here."  
  
He's looking at me again, really closely. No one does that around me. It's ... odd. Then he sticks out his hand so assertively that I flinch back a little. "Your apartment sitter -- Duo Maxwell. Well, you know my name already, don't you? But we've never been formally introduced. Pleased to meet you."  
  
I shake the hand, automatically. His palm is warm, the grip confident. _My apartment sitter._ "I'm Heero Yuy. You know that too, of course, having ... collected my mail for me over the last few months."  
  
"Ah," he says. "Of course. Sorry about that problem with the telephone bill and the squashed spider. I hope the company sent you a fresh one. Document, that is -- not bug!" The skin at the side of his eyes crinkles when he smiles.  
  
"It's fine," I say. It hadn't been at the time, but over a period of weeks, my indignation has faded. Though the memory of the big black stain on my mail -- a couple of legs still attached -- will be deeply ingrained forever.  
  
"And you ..." he starts, a little tentatively. "Of course, you've been returning the favour for me all this time."  
  
"With the spider-squashing?" I say, dryly. I'm not usually so ready to offer jokes to people I haven't met before.  
  
He laughs, quite loudly and freely and I'm startled. "Hey, no way! You don't strike me as the kind of guy who's spooked by a spider and lashes out without thinking ..." His words dry up suddenly and the flush on his cheeks deepens.  
  
For a moment, we just stand there, and then I remember Quatre's compassionately disappointed expressions and my promise to be more sociable. I'm pretty sure that extends to real life, not just through correspondence. "You're right: I was due to be away, but the antiques auction was cancelled at the last minute, so I'm still here. Obviously."  
  
"Obviously," he repeats, grinning at me. This apartment-sitting arrangement has been in place for a few months now, and both of us have taken full advantage of it. But it's surprising that we've never met before -- I suppose that realisation accounts for my current disorientation. I think anyone watching us as we stand there at the door, both rather bemused, would wonder just what kind of connection we had.  
  
"Would you like to come in anyway?" I ask, and when he nods back, I'm surprised to feel a smile on my own face. He saunters past into the apartment and I notice his hair is very long and braided down his back. It's ... very unusual. He's wearing a tee shirt with a provocative slogan that I assume is in some kind of street language, and jeans that seem to have been badly damaged around the knee area. The ensemble seems to suit him in some outlandishly stylish way. He certainly doesn't look like it bothers him. His legs are quite long and his stride is very ... assertive. That word keeps cropping up in my mind.  
  
I can't remember when I last invited a stranger into my apartment, though I daresay Quatre has been keeping a diary, just to torment me with it.  
  
But then, Duo Maxwell isn't exactly a stranger, is he?  
  
+  
  
I mean, I thought he'd be much older, didn't I? A guy who likes old furniture: one who couldn't manage to cook for himself, who didn't have much of a life. But he's not. I was _way_ wrong. Heero Yuy -- cute name. And a cute guy as well. Bit of a shock, really, to find myself face to face, just like that.  
  
I make my way to the kitchen by habit, and he follows me in. "You've got some new pans!" I can't help the exclamation, though I imagine Wufei'd be wincing at the way I open a conversation with a new acquaintance.  
  
Or perhaps ... not so new.  
  
Heero Yuy nods slowly. He looks like a guy who takes his time over things -- who's careful, and probably always right. "I ... well, having tried out a couple of your recipes, I needed some more equipment. I appreciate you leaving the details on the notepad in the kitchen now, rather than pinning them to my door, using those unusual toothpicks. The ones with the States of the Union flags on them."  
  
I can feel myself blushing. "Ah, yes ... my own special recipes. I don't know if I ever explained, but that's what I do, you see -- freelance chef. I travel around a lot, do some lecturing, do some contract work at restaurants. Cooking is what I love, to be honest." One of the few things I give my full attention to, according to Wufei. "But that was pretty rude of me when I first came around, cooking for you when I didn't know you; didn't know if you wanted me to. Made a bit of a mess, too, I'm afraid."  
  
He moves his foot almost surreptitiously. Underneath it I can still see the tomato stain from my first batch of goulash, a clumsy red splash on the pale wood of his kitchen floor. But he's trying to cover it up, which surprises me. People don't usually care about embarrassing me. "It's fine," he says, like he did at the front door. Cute voice, too: quite deep and quiet, but every word carries well. "I've practised it a few times and I complete it quite successfully now. Also the risotto recipe -- and the Spanish omelette."  
  
Now I'm flushed all over. "Shit," I say, and then wish I hadn't. "Sounds like I'm taking over your whole menu."  
  
When I catch his eye, he's not smiling anymore. "I thought that too, at first," he says. "There's no doubt that you've been an intrusion in my apartment, Duo Maxwell. Firstly, there was all that activity in my kitchen, then there were Quatre's -- my friend's -- art prints that you put up on my walls without permission. And of course there's my bonsai collection that has been left to dehydrate on a regular basis."  
  
"Those little trees? You're meant to water them?" I nearly groan out loud. My gut lurches with embarrassment; I want to sink into the floor and vanish.  
  
"Several of them have sunk into dormancy, but I've been able to save a couple." His eyes are blue and bright, and he's watching my every movement. Seems like he's got a catalogue of complaints to bring to the party. _Shit_ , I think. I wish I'd kept out of the way; I wish we were back to the polite, interesting little notes... I wish I weren't a blob of abject self-pity right now. I know the time has come to make myself scarce, which is a real shame. I'd got sort of used to this place and its cool, clean, peaceful atmosphere. And I would have liked the chance to get to know Heero Yuy better. _Really_ liked it.  
  
"Look ..." I start to apologise at having caused such trouble in what is, after all, _his_ place, but his expression has changed and now he's smiling again. It's a cautious smile, but he looks much less stern, and so I bite back my inevitable babble. He's still watching me, but it's a curious look, not confrontational. He's tall and athletic, and I must say he's an attractive man when he relaxes -- I reckon he doesn't do it often enough to realise. There's a sensuous movement throughout the whole of his body, like he's letting out a deep breath.  
  
"Duo Maxwell," he says, as if trying out my name again for size and shape on his tongue. "It's about time I met you in person."  
  
+  
  
He's been here for an hour or so now, sitting on the other end of my couch. Duo Maxwell ... it's a bold, strong name and it suits the man in person. He's drinking his second cup of tea -- tea that he's brought into the apartment himself on previous visits. He drinks an unusual blend of blackcurrant and herbs, and each time I come home I find new sachets scattered over my kitchen counter.  
  
Actually, I find a lot of things _scattered_.  
  
He's an example in himself: he's sprawling on the couch, one leg tucked under him, the other stretched out and nudging at the leg of the table. He exudes energy, even when he's presumably at rest. When he puts his cup down, he knocks the lamp off its base, and I instinctively reach out to stop it falling. He catches it himself, though, his face creased with an apologetic smile. He stands it back up, a few centimetres too far to the left, but the misalignment doesn't seem to worry me.  
  
Perhaps his attitude is contagious. I'm not sure how I feel about that. The confusion makes me feel a little dizzy.  
  
"So tell me what _you_ do," he asks. "We've been in touch all this time but never really found out these kinds of things." I'm usually reluctant to talk about myself, and I can feel the muscles tensing across the back of my neck. Perhaps he sees my hesitation, because he leans forward and touches my arm. "Sorry. Sometimes I'm too blunt -- I'm not polite enough for other people. You don't have to tell me a thing."  
  
"I source antiques for clients," I say, in a bit of a rush. My voice sounds a little uneven. I can't stop staring at his hand on my arm. "You've seen my catalogues and my own collection -- but I work in the field as well. I'm hired by a corporation or a particular individual, and asked to find something special for them at a price they specify. I travel a lot to regional antique auctions and shows. Well, you know I'm often away, that's why you're here ..." My throat is a little dry, so I swallow, and continue. "I've always been good at determining the value of a piece, and I can evaluate the bidding accordingly. I get great satisfaction out of knowing a client can display the right item in the right place for them."  
  
He draws back his hand, biting his lip, and suddenly I'm worried for no apparent reason. Did I say something wrong? Wasn't that what he wanted to know?  
  
"The right thing in the right place," he says, slowly. His face is a bit flushed, and I don't think it can be from the tea. "So is that what you've been doing at _my_ place, Heero Yuy?"  
  
I stare. My stomach feels nauseous. I don't understand what kind of person he can be, who can create this disorder inside me. "I think that you've found me an intrusion as well."  
  
"You think damned right," he answers. His voice is very soft, but there's wariness in his eyes. I often see that look when I meet people, but I thought that was because of business, not ... whatever this is. "At first, I couldn't find the things I wanted -- and some of the things I _didn't_ want to find kept appearing in front of me at every damned turn. Then I started to look at things differently, all over. Perhaps you'll have noticed the changes I've made; the reorganisation that's gone on in my apartment. Since I don't have a whole lot of through traffic there, I can only conclude that the upheaval in my life is due to _you_."  
  
For some strange reason, I find myself staring at one of Quatre's pictures, one of the selections that Duo Maxwell put up on my wall on his first visit here. It's marked the pale paintwork quite badly; it's very bright and very obtrusive, and it's constantly in my line of sight when I come into the lounge to rest. Quatre still comments on it, teasing me about my initial intention to remove it. I wonder to myself why it's still there ... and why I'm rather used to it now.  
  
"You threw out my gin," Duo Maxwell's voice says, quietly. "You cleared up things that I didn't need -- nor _want_ \-- cleared up. We don't all live the same way as you, Heero Yuy."  
  
"I'm sorry." That's my voice speaking -- it sounds miserable. It's the first time for a long while that I've felt so wrong about something.  
  
When he jumps up in a burst of long limbs and noise and movement, I know he's going back to his own place. I feel very disappointed. But of course I understand that I have overstepped a mark, even if I wasn't entirely sure where it was. For maybe the first time ever, I curse my preference for my own company.  
  
"Hey, forget it," he says. "It's _fine_ , OK?" I think he may be mimicking me, though it doesn't sound malicious. "So will you come back to _my_ apartment now?" He has to repeat the invitation, and that makes him smile. He's still smiling. He doesn't seem angry anymore. I'm aware that I'm staring quite rudely, but he doesn't seem to mind. "My turn to welcome _you_ , Heero Yuy, now that we've met properly. Hell, any guy who can find my remote control when it's been missing for weeks can't be _all_ bad!"  
  
And when I keep staring, totally confused, he laughs aloud again. The noise fills my apartment, louder than an auctioneer's call, and more warmly, too. I think I can recognise some good-natured teasing when it's shining in Duo Maxwell's wide, vivid blue eyes.  
  
+  
  
Heero is really an astonishing guy. I mean, I've learned some things about him just from his notes and being around his apartment, but there's no substitute for meeting someone face to face, is there? We've had a browse through some of the albums of my demonstration shows and my lecture appearances. He's put me straight on a few things about design around the apartment -- oh, and he helped me fix that cupboard door in the kitchen at last.  
  
He wasn't too sure about my couch at first -- hell, he was civil about it, which I think is pretty much the way he is, but I could see it didn't meet his professional expectations. But when he sat down in it, his eyes did that dark widening thing that shows his emotions. He was pleasantly surprised with its comfort, and after all, that's what I want it for.  
  
We're sitting here now, and have been for an hour or so. Time flies and all that. He's really easy to talk to, but every now and then I catch him staring at me with that confused look. When I know him better, we can talk about it. Or maybe not. Doesn't matter to me, so long as we're cool with each other.  
  
"You want some supper?" I ask, ready to dash about for us both. "There's a combination of chicken and tarragon that I'm working on ..."  
  
"No," he says, sharply, and then grimaces. Guess we're both a bit blunt sometimes. "I meant, not yet. I'm comfortable here, Duo."  
  
I'm happy with that. I sort of like staring back at him, to tell you the truth. We must look like a couple of idiots, grinning at each other and sinking gradually down into the couch. I can see what Wufei meant about its uses; it's damned good value for money if you want somewhere to sit comfortably with ... a friend. At one point, I worry that Heero might be getting a back ache, and I lend him a hand to settle himself more comfortably. He makes some protest, but he doesn't let go of my arm afterwards for quite a while.  
  
I realise I'd quite like to develop that particular kind of _cool with each other_. The feeling catches me by surprise.  
  
"You have to get back? I mean, you've probably got stuff to prepare for work next week, or calls to make --"  
  
"No."  
  
"Me neither," I say. "I've got a couple of days leave, actually. I'm between contracts."  
  
"I ... might be off work, too." His face looks kind of flushed. "I don't have any appointments confirmed for the next nine days." His knee is brushing against mine, touching the skin where the fabric is split.  
  
I want to ask if he's dating -- or going steady, or whatever. It's a long time since I felt that interested. It's rare that I'd actually _welcome_ Wufei's advice, but I'm not so confident in this area. I kind of want to know if Heero likes boys, rather than girls. The look in his eyes encourages me, but I don't think we're quite ready yet to exchange past sexual resumes.  
  
"We could get together again, then," I say, slowly. "Soon. We could take a look at that Ideal Apartment exhibition in the city."  
  
"We could visit the new Spanish food market on the harbour," he replies, just as slowly.  
  
"Or just ... apartment sit," I say, even more cautiously. "But together." I grin, so that he can take it as one of my jokes, if he wants to.  
  
We stare at each other. The air feels suddenly warmer; my breathing is shallow. He isn't smiling back at me, and I'm not entirely sure what the expression on his face means -- he's not the easiest guy to read. I think of his cool, tidy apartment, and then I think of my place that's still pretty chaotic, despite all my attempts. I can only see the differences, not the similarities between us. "Look, Heero, sorry about that. Obviously it's not --"  
  
He interrupts me, words all in a rush. "Are you scared of stepping on my toes, Duo?"  
  
I draw a sharp breath. "Are you scared of falling over mine, Heero?"  
  
We do that staring thing again, and then we _both_ smile. Broadly. It feels pretty good.  
  
He stands up to leave, but he's still gazing at me. "Come around tomorrow," he says, rather shyly. "When I'm in, I mean. I can arrange things for us."  
  
"Good," I reply, scrambling to my feet as well. "As _arranging's_ not my particular strength."  
  
I see him to the door, where he pauses. He picks up a pad of sticky notes abandoned on the hall table and the purple marker beside it, and he prints a number on the top sheet. "My private cell number," he says. "For ... future reference." Then as I watch with surprise, he peels the sheet off and attaches it very deliberately to the wall at the side of the door. It's now a bright fluorescent square framed by a random strip of crimson wallpaper that I keep meaning to remove. He grimaces at the shocking contrast, and he spends a long time carefully lining up the paper with the doorframe, but it's the way _I'd_ leave a message, and so I appreciate the gesture from him.  
  
I stand at the door and watch Heero Yuy walk back up the corridor. I'm in no rush to go back into my apartment, and things feel very -- _very_ \-- good. If this is what it means to enjoy life to the full, I'm not gonna bitch to Wufei about his brotherly mission ever again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> by FancyFigures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note from Dacia, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [A Little Piece of Gundam Wing](https://fanlore.org/wiki/A_Little_Piece_Of_Gundam_Wing), which closed in 2017. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after July 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [a little piece of gundam wing collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/alittlepieceofgundamwing/profile).

Wufei struggled past several groups of chatting guests, clutching his collection of champagne-filled glasses. The function room was full of people from all parts of the media world, all gushing over piles of the new, glossily-printed bestseller. He passed one particularly tall pile and stared at the vivid picture of his friend on the cover. " _Maxwell's Menu: from Minestrone to Mousse_ ," he groaned to himself, shaking his head with wry amusement. He finally reached his own table with a sigh of relief, sat down, and handed the glasses around.  
  
"Have you seen Duo yet?" asked Quatre, one of his new friends. "He went off to autograph some books but I haven't seen him since."   
  
"Nor Heero," added Trowa. He sat beside Quatre, his arm casually around the back of his partner's chair. "They'll be together somewhere. The pair of them are like bookends nowadays."   
  
"They've just developed a good friendship," protested Quatre. His back arched gently as Trowa teased at the hair in the nape of his neck, nuzzling into the protective caress. "Though God knows, they seemed to have little enough in common at first."   
  
Trowa nodded. "On the one hand, Heero's obsession with order and control ..."  
  
"Versus Duo's desire to be free of anything remotely resembling discipline," countered Wufei.   
  
The three young men grimaced at each other. And then grinned.   
  
"Things have definitely changed since then. Did you see that designer shirt Duo was wearing tonight?" Wufei sounded impressed. "Smart dressing is no longer a nauseating concept to him."   
  
Trowa smiled back at him. "And Heero nearly arrived tonight wearing mismatched socks. He was scandalised when I spotted it and made a pile of excuses from not having the full laundry facilities around at Duo's apartment, to losing the matching items down the back of that sagging couch of Duo's --"  
  
"You know Duo's thinking of getting rid of that couch?" said Wufei. "Says the springs have collapsed. He can't have had it longer than six months. He wants to replace it with one just the same -- said something about sentimental value."   
  
"And apparently," added Quatre, excitedly, "Heero's antique Chesterfield is uncomfortable and just no good for mak--" He caught Trowa's widening eyes and bit off the rest of the sentence in time, "-- for sitting in."   
  
They watched the rest of the party milling around them for a while, sitting companionably and watching for their mutual friends to reappear.   
  
"The book's doing well in Europe," Quatre commented. "I had no idea Duo was such a talented cook. They love ... _eccentric_ chefs over there, though. Apparently the publishers want him to do a series of books now, on creative cooking through the ages ..."  
  
Wufei nodded. "It's to be illustrated with antique novelties, discovered and collected by Heero. An attractive combination."   
  
They could see two young men peeling themselves out from among a cluster of reporters and publishing assistants, laughing their good-natured protests and insisting on a break to draw breath and have a drink themselves. They were both waving hands vaguely in the direction of their friends.   
  
Trowa glanced at Wufei over the table top and he winked.   
  
"Mission accomplished," murmured Wufei, nodding.   
  
"Yes," sighed Quatre, still gazing at the couple on their way over. His expression could best be described as compassionate approval. "A _very_ attractive combination."   
  
+  
  
I'm so proud of Duo, and of his creative success. It was a contact of mine in the publishing world who gave him the chance to put his proposal forward, but it's Duo's own work that's in that garishly illustrated book. I haven't been able to look at anyone but him all night. He's flushed and laughing and he's never looked more vibrant. I struggle to remember what my life was like before I met him. Whenever he's with me, it's like a fresh burst of energy: he's light and colour and noise, and maybe sometimes uncontrollable. But I can learn to live with that. I _am_ learning to live with that! And enjoying the experience more than I could have believed possible. We've been surrounded by representatives from the publishers since we arrived, and we'd already decided not to show too much public affection except around our friends, but he still has that way of looking straight at me and smiling that's almost better than an arm around me ... or a kiss.   
  
By the way, it's been three hours and eighteen minutes since he last kissed me, and that was merely a snatched moment behind the makeshift bookshelves. I'm only prepared to last another hour or so before asking for another. From the look in his eye, I think he's already guessed at my dishonourable intentions. As he turns to sign some more autographs, he grins, rather too knowingly.   
  
He refused to wear anything smarter than his jeans, despite the fact that the knees have worn completely through by now. It never ceases to confuse me that he doesn't care about his clothing the same way that I do. He says the jeans are his favourites -- he says they're the ones he was wearing when we first ... anyway, he has a strange and robust capacity for sentimentality that I'm learning to treasure. At least he looks good in his new shirt. It's a beautiful, sensual fabric. I want to touch it where it clings to his torso.   
  
Dammit, I want to touch _him_!   
  
I feel transparent when he turns around again to catch me watching him. His grin is even broader. He has a whole portfolio of smiles, in fact, and I can recognise almost all of them by now. The knowledge amazes me.   
  
And it thrills me to realise how much I enjoy smiling back.   
  
+  
  
The only reason I'm at this damned embarrassing book launch is because it's a chance to see Heero in a suit and then grope him shamelessly behind the refreshment table. Otherwise I'd be out of here, faster than either of us could spit. Well, not that Heero would _spit_ , of course -- he's far too well behaved for that.   
  
I don't know if success is going to go to my head. The champagne's doing that already. Thank God Heero's here to keep an eye on me. And my ass. Hell, that's the champagne talking.   
  
I'm so glad he's here with me. I like to turn around and see him there. I like to hear his calm voice, listen to his dry jokes, tease him when he slips back into his most rigid ways. I like his weird antique stuff and his miniature trees and his cool sanctuary of an apartment. All of it -- I've always liked it ... always will. It's fun, getting to know each other. Well, _I_ think it is! Heero occasionally looks a little left behind, but he doesn't seem upset about it. Kinda likes being swept along sometimes, I guess.   
  
I feel a bit sentimental. I blame the champagne. Good to have _something_ to blame.   
  
He moves beside me at last, and his hand brushes oh so gently against my back. "I just spoke to your agent ..." he murmurs in my ear. "She said something about a European tour. For both of us."   
  
I start to grin with the anticipation of a trip full of adventures and discoveries and cute accents and -- of course -- luxury hotel rooms with baths big enough for two slim guys and a mess of bubbles. I might even toss in some scented candles. But Heero's eyes are dark and still, the way that they sometimes go, and I pause for a moment.   
  
"So ... how do you feel about that, Heero?"   
  
He slips his hand under my belt at the back of my jeans and tugs me very slightly towards him. "Only one problem, Duo Maxwell."   
  
Oh God, what? "What's that, Heero Yuy?"   
  
He smiles that smile that makes my flesh melt against my bones and the champagne bubbles pop under my very skin. "Who the hell are we going to ask to apartment sit for us while we're gone?"  
  
end


End file.
